


Bound and So Close to Breaking...

by HowShouldIKnowboutLife



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Aphrodesiac - implied, Choking, Creampie, Crying, Crying During Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Emotional Manipulation, Face-Fucking, Force-Feeding, Forced Orgasm, Gangbang, Hands tied behind back, Kidnapped/Imprisoned, Masturbation, Mindfuck, Other, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Silenced/Forcibly Muted, Slick/Slime, Sounding, Spitroasting, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, force-drinking, he does not escape, just absolutely filthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowShouldIKnowboutLife/pseuds/HowShouldIKnowboutLife
Summary: The Cult of Hades figured it would be easier to keep control of Wilde if they just kept him with them. If they have a little fun while they wait for orders on what to do with him, well... who's going to say no to a Squizard of Hades? Or three?
Relationships: Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)/The Cult of Hades
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Bound and So Close to Breaking...

**Author's Note:**

> OH EM GEE! There are literal squid beings in this universe and only *one* other tentacle fic out there?!! C'mon people - its a CLASSIC!! Well, worry not for here's 2.7k words of that good good fucking. Those who helped inspire & encourage it know who they are ;) love yall <3
> 
> Enjoy! (^_^)

Oscar tries to keep count. Of the hours, the days, the food cycles, the rapes, the weeks - _anything_ . He really does. But he can't. There's no light in this room, and all the figures look exactly the same. He's still yearning for real sleep and his body doesn't know to stay awake and _count_. So, quickly - much much too quickly - he loses track. It's all he can do to hold out hope that he'll get out. That someone will want him and he'll leave this place. Even if its only to be placed in the hands of someone who will wring him of all information - at least it wont be this torture. Wilde hasn't been this aware of every part of his body since he first hit puberty and discovered himself. Now he just wishes they would stop discovering him too.

He doesn't know if it's a spell or something in the food, or maybe just something in the viscous slick that drips from their tentacles and down into him, but he's hard. So achingly, desperately hard. He thinks of all his tried and true methods to calm himself but nothing works. He's at full attention, even as he slumps on the dirty floor, hands tied behind him. He doesn't even have the energy to rut against the floorboards like a dog - like a worm. All he can do is lay there, bare, hard, wanting and disgusted, as he counts the seconds- minutes- hours, until they decide they want to play with him again.

The dream is just beginning to turn into a nightmare when he feels the slimey appendage run up his calf. Or wait - maybe this _is_ the nightmare... can he even tell anymore? Suckers grab and bite onto his dick as the cultist wraps around him - his whine is inaudible. He's certain now - he is awake. Unfortunately.

The drag of the teeth-filled suckers up and down his sensitive skin makes him shudder. It hurts. Gods alive - it hurts. He's sure the thing is dragging cuts up his cock, making him bleed and writhe with pain even as his hips buck into the hold, chasing any relief from the constant arousal.

He hears a noise he's come to understand is laughter from the thing. Shame colors him, but it doesn't stop jerking him off and he can't stop thrusting into it.

He feels more wet tentacles wrap his throat and choke him to lift him into a position better for their use. This one passes a new tentacle over his lips and he knows better than to fight them. He opens wide and swallows as the hard thick limb pushes down his throat, fully cutting off any air he had left. All he can taste is sweet sour slime.

The one pumping his cock moves faster, wraps tighter, gets slicker, and oscars orgasm is as unsurprising as it is intensely humiliating. He has only a moment of relief from his arousal before he's horny again and if he wasn't already silenced and crying from the one in his throat, he would have sobbed.

The cultist continues until he's oversensitive and then releases him, letting his cock hang down to the floor, dipping into the very beginnings of what he knows will become a pool of his cum and their slick.

His lungs are starting to scream for air. Being a bard, he's got better lung capacity than most, but these bastards seem determined to train him up more. Not that he thinks any of this is for his benefit. No, he knows they just like the way he spasms around them when he needs air.

He can feel the twitching start as the tentacle in his mouth only reaches further down his throat. The one behind caresses his entrance. With the portion of his brain not overcome with exhaustion, or needing to _breathe_ , Oscar rushes to try and relax his ass - the bastards will get in whether he does or not but he's found it hurts just the slightest bit less if he doesn't resist.

In what must be a coordinated motion, the cultist behind pushes all the way in as the one in front pulls completely out, simultaneously allowing Oscar breath and robbing him of it. The conflicting relief and pressure pump another orgasm out of him. Without a moment of pause the tentacle inside him starts fucking him, setting a fast and hard pace that he knows from experience is only half as hard as they can go, and drawing his orgasm out longer. 

He can't even focus on the momentary relief from arousal. All he can think of is the drag of the suckers deep inside him.

His mouth hangs open, drool and slick and blood dripping down his chin and onto the floor. The tentacle that was in his mouth returns and pushes in again, thankfully not as deep - just enough to tease his throat, but not cut off his air. It's in enough, though, that Oscar has to find some of his mind again and return to swallowing its slick, lest he choke or drown. 

His tongue explores the tentacle, sliding up the smooth skin and swirling around every sucker he can reach. He's considered biting through the cursed things, but damnably their skin is thick and tough like leather. And the punishments for purposely injuring them aren't worth the trouble. He sucks more slick down, wishing he could recoil from the way it coats his throat - but their holds are unbreakable, and even if they werent, he's too weak to resist.

The slime makes any noise even more impossible, so he can only shudder and tremble when more tentacles rub down his chest, sucking onto his nipples and digging into his navel.

It hurts, of course it hurts, everything hurts, but it doesn't stop him from silently moaning and cumming a third time as a second tentacle begins pushing into him beside the first.

Seemingly spurred on by its two companions, the cultist at his mouth leaves off with the tentacle-warming and begins fucking oscar's mouth in earnest, tightening its chokehold and making him gag with every thrust. The two behind him feel like they're fighting over him - seeing who can thrust harder, go deeper, flex bigger, trying to push the other one out. All they succeed in doing is ripping oscar open wider and making his weak knees slide out from under him. 

Oscar hangs between them, useless to do anything but take it - trying to open and relax himself further but only achieving in giving them more space to push in and conquer him.

Then he feels the first tentacle in his ass begin twitching and with dread feels it secrete a flood of slime into him. He doesn't know if the move was a bid to flood the other opponent out or maybe to mark oscar as its own, but all that matters is that oscar is now full. So very, very full. 

He's been drinking the slime of the second from the moment it walked in and his stomach is heavy from the thick liquid. Adding the slime to his already stuffed entrance makes him feel there's not a single bit of him inside and out not drenched in the stuff.

He wants it out. He needs it out. They will _not_ claim him - _please_ for the love of all the gods don't let them claim him!

His stomach roils and he can feel the gags becoming more real. He tries to catch his breath before retching it all out but. He only gets in a small gasp before the tentacle stops fucking him and just penetrates all the way down his throat, shivering as it descends before flooding him with more slick that he has no choice but to accept.

The new weight arcs his torso to the floor, dipping his cock into the mess of blood and drool and cum and slick below him. He sobs at even the _touch_ of more of their claiming on him and he cums like he’s trying to empty himself of anything he can.

Finally the tentacles pull out of his mouth and leave his neck, catching him by his hair with a painful wrenching before he can fall face-first into the mess they've made. The two fighting fuckers behind him have slowed down, taking their time to hit his sweet spots and deliberately dragging their suckers along his walls.

He's pulled up by the hair until he's sitting upright on them, feeling a tentacle slide through his bound arms and hold him in place. He tries and fails to cry out when all the tentacles stuck to his chest pop off and replace themselves in new areas, letting the air and dripping slick tease his now sensitive skin. He makes no sound but for the squelching of slick as he sinks further onto the two.

Everything is slower now. The ones behind him are fucking him like they care, taking their time, finding everywhere that makes him shiver and twitch. And that's almost worse than being brutally used. If they just fucked him and left then he could break that much quicker, but no. They know he wants to be treated well, so they tease him with it - reminding him what it's like to be cared for.

They brush his hair back from his face, gently caress his cheeks like they're wiping the mess from his tears, and softly touch each bruise so it feels like a kiss. 

They fuck him like a lover, like his pleasure matters, like they didnt just tear him apart and make him bleed for their satisfaction.

Tentacles reposition his limp legs so he's more comfortable and their slick on his thighs feels less like a defilement and more like a comforting layer - a blanket meant to protect him from the harshness of the world. As if that was anything but a pretty lie.

But Oscar has always been drawn to pretty lies - he is one himself after all. Is it so wrong to take comfort when he hurts so much? When there's red coating his chest and splattering the floor? He tries to remind himself it's all a lie, it means nothing, they'll still hurt him later. But he wants the comfort so much. He shuts his eyes and lets himself believe - just for a little bit - that something actually cares about him.

He feels the tentacle slide between his legs, rolling his balls gently as another wraps around his cock and starts to slowly stroke, keeping rhythm with the slow fucking.

His head falls back onto the too tall shoulder of one of the cultists, and the tentacle that was pulling his hair trails down his chest to begin poking at the tip of his cock. 

It takes him a quick second to realize what it wants but he can't move at all to dissuade it, trapped as he is between the three of them.

Thinning to a small point the tentacle inserts itself into him, forcing him to open wider than he expects he should be. The other continues to stroke him and where the two overlap is a tight, painful pressure that combined with all the other soft attention, only adds to his building climax.

He doesnt cum quickly - they take their time with him, making sure he feels everything: every little twitch and twist and pull inside him, every slick caress and biting suction on his skin, every drop of fluids flowing from every possible place. The slick drag of smooth tentacle over his cock and balls, the pinching pain at the head that becomes just another part of the rhythm, becomes almost soothing in its predictability - a point of contrast to highlight how gentle they're being with the rest of him.

He feels the growing tension: in his curling toes, his tightening balls, his trembling arms, his stuttering breaths. They don't move any faster, letting him ride every second of his cresting climax and keeping him plugged until he’s spurting cum around the intrusion. The cultists keep the steady pace through the short aftershocks until he’s fully aroused again (as always - it never stops, and Oscar’s starting to believe it never will), and even past that until he's crying again and shaking with attempts to pull out of their secure holds.

Then all at once, they all pull out and drop him carelessly on the floor. He splashes face down into the pool of filth, but he’s too limp and weak to move. He just watches as the three of them file out of the bare room and shut the door, leaving him in near-total darkness.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, too fucked out to keep track. He can feel every inch of his body. The sore and stiff muscles, the bruises - but mainly... mainly what he can feel is the emptiness.

He knows he’s gaping wide - can feel his torn edges clenching around nothing, the air cooling the slick still pooled in him and dripping down his legs. He doesn't even have the energy to be disgusted. Not when all he can think of is the battle that they fought within him, filling and stretching him past his limits, and how much he wishes he were still in the midst of that war.

He kisses his lips together, checking that there really isn't anything between them. He misses the thick weight on his tongue, pushing his jaw open until it cracks. The thick sour slick that poured into him, coating his tongue until his revulsion at the taste turned to desire for it, spilling down his throat and filling every space not taken up by the tentacle. The way every breath became a privilege and a gift he learned to be grateful for.

He feels his heart pounding in every sucker-bruise and in each cut that openly bleeds down his body. Blood mixes with the mess which just soaks back into him - into the wounds - salting his injuries and causing scars. Shame wells up as he knows he's glad they're there - a memory of those rare gentle touches that will never leave him.

But they did leave him didn't they? Oscar is laying cold and alone on this floor with just the still-warm puddle of filth as the only reminder that he’s not been left forgotten by _everyone_. 

He wants them back. He wants them here, filling him, surrounding him, making him warm with their gifts and his blood and the seemingly endless friction. He doesn't want to be alone.

Oscar starts to mouth at the floor, lapping at the mess, desperately trying to flood his mouth with the taste of them - only barely getting a mouthful. He struggles to twist his aching, stiff body so his cock is trapped against the floor - moaning at the contact, the pressure, the slick surrounding him that drives him to rut in little pained thrusts. He wants the tentacles around his cock, wants to be inside them, wants to remember he’s wanted. The floor is too slick for any sort of friction but he _tries_. Whines soundlessly as he fails to get his knees under him for a better position, whines that he even has the breath to whine. He wants them back, please come back, don’t leave him alone, don’t leave him wanting like this!

Sobs join his whines as he squirms in the pool, remembering them inside him, filling him until he’s been replaced and all that’s left is a toy for them. He’s still their toy - he’s certainly not the great Oscar Wilde anymore… no, they’ve taken that from him, so the least they could do is come back and let him be useful!

Oscar finally cums, silently weeping at what he’s become, what he doesn’t want to be. Crying from the simultaneous revulsion and desire at knowing they’ll return. They’re not done with him. They’ll never be. He’s lost track of time, lost track of himself, and as he finally falls unconscious, he wonders if he should even be trying to keep up.


End file.
